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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26030278">I Love My Clyde/And I Love My Bonnie Too</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/WatchMyFavesSuffer/pseuds/WatchMyFavesSuffer'>WatchMyFavesSuffer</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Gossip Girl (TV 2007)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Bisexual Blair, Bisexual Chuck, Bisexual Nate (if you squint), Bisexual Vanessa, Camp Suisse, F/F, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, M/M, NYU - Freeform</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-08-21</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-08-21</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 07:27:30</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,382</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26030278</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/WatchMyFavesSuffer/pseuds/WatchMyFavesSuffer</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Chuck agrees to tell Blair about his first gay kiss— so long as she does the same. </p><p> </p><p>Everyone Is Bisexual (because it’s my fic and I’ll do what I want)</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Chuck Bass/Blair Waldorf, Chuck Bass/Original Male Character(s), Nate Archibald/Chuck Bass, Vanessa Abrams/Blair Waldorf</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>38</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>I Love My Clyde/And I Love My Bonnie Too</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>This is the only fluff y’all are ever gonna get from me, so cherish it LMAO.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“When was the first time you kissed a guy?” Blair asks, snuggled into Chuck’s chest.</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Chuck laughs softly. “Privileged information.”</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I thought we didn’t keep secrets,” Blair says petulantly.</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Well, darling, what happens at Camp Suisse stays at Camp Suisse.”</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Come on, Chuck, you have to tell me. I don’t care about your camp friends from Dalton and Horace Mann, I won’t tell anyone.” </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Hmmm,” Chuck hums, amused.</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1"><span class="s1">“So it’s </span> <span class="s2">not</span> <span class="s1"> some Riverdale Day School nobody? Is it someone famous? Chuck, if you kissed Jared Kushner, you </span> <em> <span class="s2">have</span> </em> <span class="s1"> to tell me.” Blair sits up, suddenly dead serious at the prospect of previously unheard scandal.</span></p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“And if I tell you, what will you do for me?” He asks, stretching his arms in mock-casualness, grinning suggestively. </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“It just so happens that I had a same-sex dalliance of my own. I was planning on taking it to the grave, but now…”</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Chuck turns to lay on his side, facing Blair completely. She has his attention.</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1"><span class="s1">“Before you get excited, </span> <em> <span class="s2">no</span> </em> <span class="s1">, it does not involve Serena, bubble baths, or pillow fights.”</span></p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Tell you what. We both share, and whoever has the hotter story gets to pick the game for us to play this weekend.”</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“You’ve got yourself a deal, Bass.”</span>
</p><hr/><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The summer before his sophomore year, Chuck flies (commercial, because his father didn’t care enough to lend him the private) into Geneva. </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He flags down a flight attendant and asks for a scotch. </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I’m sorry, sir, but I’ll need to see some ID.” </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1"><span class="s1">“No, </span> <em> <span class="s2">I’m</span> </em> <span class="s1"> sorry. I should have been more clear: go check my ticket, look at the last name, then we’ll have this conversation again.” He had learned that is he used his quietest, most sultry voice, people could never tell if they were insulted or turned on. </span></p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">(They were probably both.) </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Pulling rank with the last name. Been there,” A voice from across the aisle says. Chuck leans forward and sees a kid about his age, in chinos and a striped linen shirt unbuttoned to the sternum, nursing a mimosa. </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He reaches over and shakes this guy’s hand— he introduces himself. “And that last name?”</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Kennedy. And you’re Chuck Bass, right?” He smiles. He’s built, with the square features and full head of hair that distinguish his family. A lesser Kennedy, sure, but certainly a worthy companion for the summer. </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Have we met?”</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“The Van der Bilt clambake a few years ago. You go to St. Jude’s with Nate Archibald, right?”</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Right! You used to go to Boston Latin, then Suisse during the summer. Where have they been hiding you?”</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Sent off to Andover for misbehavior. Is Archibald around here somewhere?” He cranes his head to look around the first-class cabin. </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“He’s been on an architectural tour of Europe with his mother and the Van der Woodsens. He’s taking the train in.”</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Didn’t peg him as an architecture buff,” He smirks as he downs the lasts of his mimosa. </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Nathaniel? You could tell him a Pizza Hut was a Gothic cathedral and he wouldn’t know the difference.”</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The Kennedy kid laughs— loud, almost snorting. They grin at each other. </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“That poor asshole,” he laughs. </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Say, are you going to get a cab when we land in Geneva?”</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“No, I’m pretty sure there’s a towncar waiting for me.”</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Oh, okay—“ The flight attendant cuts off an embarrassed Chuck. </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I’m so sorry, Mr. Bass. Your single-malt.” She says with a tight smile. </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">As she retreats and Chuck swirls his scotch, Kennedy leans in. “I could always cancel the car. It’s 90 minutes from Geneva to Targon, and I’d rather spend it in the back of the Bass limo. If you’re offering, that is.”</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">And the back of the Bass limo only means one thing. </span>
</p><p class="p2">xxx</p><p class="p1"><span class="s1">The boy tastes like old money, new shoes, and good champagne. His hair is thick and gleams like </span> <em> <span class="s2">champs de blé</span> </em> <span class="s1"> in the setting sun, and his arms are strong and solid from being a varsity crewman. He holds a finger to Chucks lips while the other hand undoes the made-to-order mother of pearl buttons on his shirt. And when his hands span over Chuck’s body, he murmurs “Fuck, you’re hot.” </span></p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1"><span class="s1">Chuck had been with plenty of girls by that point, but no one ever talked to him that way. He was usually the one doling out compliments and undoing buttons. He’d never felt </span> <em> <span class="s2">wanted</span> </em> <span class="s1"> like this, treasured. </span></p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">For the next two weeks, Chuck mostly ignores Nate, who he shares his room with, and Serena, who smuggled in some hash from a pit stop in Amsterdam and is keeping half the boys wrapped around her little finger with her late night smoking sessions in the hot tubs. Bass and Kennedy sneak around, stealing clandestine touches whenever possible. It’s just another game, just fun between friends, and Chuck can go from taking his earlobe between his teeth to talking with him about movies and women and cognac. </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Late in the first week of camp, Nate announces he wants to try dog sledding on the glacier, which is half a day’s hike away. “Have fun with that, Mr. Amundsen.” Chuck laughs.</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Mr. Who?”</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Forget it, Nathaniel.”</span>
</p><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p1"><span class="s1"> So he has the room to himself all day. </span> <span class="s1">He invites the boy up to his room. Matters... progress. Chuck is shirtless, which he hasn’t been in front of another man, except maybe Nate at a sleepover or two, and the Kennedy boy is sitting next to him on the bed, unbuttoned but remarkably composed, kissing Chuck as though it were every bit as natural as reaching for the morning paper at the breakfast table. He slides a hand into Chuck’s pants. </span></p><hr/><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“That’s it?” Blair says, voice thick with disbelief.</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“</span>
  <em>
    <span class="s2">C’est tout, mon cœur</span>
  </em>
  <span class="s1"><em>.</em> Is it really so hard to believe?”</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“You expect me to accept that Chuck Bass stopped at an over-the-shorts handy? Surely your opinion of me can’t be that low.” </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Fine.” Chuck sighs. “But this part isn’t very sexy.” </span>
</p><hr/><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The door opens. “I’m back, Chad twisted his ankle and I had to walk him back to—“ Nate looks up from untying his hiking boots. “Oh, shit.” Chuck hastily stands up, covering the crotch of his pants with folded hands. </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1"><span class="s1">“Shit, sorry, should have knocked, I’ll just—“ Nate turns back toward the door as though to exit, then realizes it’s his room and heads back toward his bed. He holds up his hands as though surrendering to the police. Chuck scoffs, </span> <em> <span class="s2">c’mon Nathaniel</span><span class="s1">. </span> </em></p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He turns his back so as not to see anything more. “Shit, I’m— Fuck. Sorry, guys, I didn’t see anything. I mean, I’m not looking. I mean— hey man. Good to see you?” </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">By the time he’s collected himself and stopped babbling, the other boy is zipped up and heading out the door: He pats Nate on the shoulder. “Likewise, Archibald.” He slips out the door. </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Chuck, still slightly out of breath, shrugs his shirt back on and sits on the bed with practiced artificial ease. “Breathe,Nathaniel. <em>Please</em>.” </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Chuck, I— I didn’t see anything. Like, the angle wasn’t all that good, and it all happened so quickly—“</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“It’s fine, I don’t have anything to hide in that department.” </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Nate sits down opposite Chuck’s bed. He knits his pretty little eyebrows together in that confused puppy-dog look of concern. </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Chuck, man, are you just doing this to piss of your dad? Or is this...what you want?” </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Chuck rolls his eyes. “I don’t know.” He tries for an exasperated sigh but his breath quavers. “I really don’t know.” </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He’s looking past his best friend into the softness of the middle distance. </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Hey, I didn’t mean to upset you. You don’t have to know if you’re...<em>you know</em>...yet.” </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“But I wish I knew.”</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Well, let me see if I can do something to help.” Nate says, lighthearted and unruffled as always. He stands up, walks over to Chuck, and kisses him. </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Chuck opens his mouth a little, just enough to taste Nate’s lips, which are soft but insistent, then pulls away.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> It was...better than he wanted it to be. He wishes he hated it, wishes it was weird and gross and laughable. But it’s not. Not to him. </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Well. Did that clear anything up?” </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I think it might have.” </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Hey, congrats for bagging a Kennedy, man.” He punches him lightly on the shoulder and they grin at each other. </span>
</p><hr/><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Don’t do this to me.” Blair pleads, with shockingly deep sincerity. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The TA, a beautiful dark-skinned woman sipping an iced coffee and grading papers without making eye contact, sighs. “The pairs were randomized, and it’s a very large class, I’m not going to go through the trouble of reassigning partners.” </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I am asking you, as a fellow attractive, educated, high-powered woman who understands what colors looks best on her, do not pie me with Vanessa Abrams.” </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Um, thank you?” She sighs again. “I don’t understand what your problem with Ms. Abrams even is. Your first semester just started, how do you already hate her?”</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1"><span class="s1">“Have you </span> <em> <span class="s2">seen</span> </em> <span class="s1"> her? She thinks conditioner is optional and caviar is overrated. It’s like trying to edit an essay with a Bolshevik.”</span></p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I’m sorry, but like I said, it would be a lot of fuss to reassign partners. It’s a two-week project to work on your peer reviewing skills. No one’s asking you to braid each other’s hair.” </span>
</p><p class="p2">xxx</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I need something to drink.” Vanessa says, pushing away from the table and heading toward the kitchen. </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Blair puts down her pencil and blows a loose strand of hair out of her eyes. They’ve been sitting at the dining room table in Eleanor’s apartment for hours, picking at a fruit tray and slogging their way through each other’s writing. She calls after Vanessa’s retreating back. </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1"><span class="s1">“Have you written a single essay this year that wasn’t about how </span> <em> <span class="s2">different</span> </em> <span class="s1"> you are because you take the G train and worked in a community garden? Because if you bent over backward any further to mention it, I think you’d break a few vertebrae.” </span></p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Vanessa reappears in the doorway with a glass of rosé.</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1"><span class="s1">“You don’t have to hate my essay to prove to me you hate poor people. </span> <span class="s2">Trust me</span><span class="s1">, I got the message.” </span></p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1"><span class="s1">“I don’t </span> <em> <span class="s2">hate</span> </em> <span class="s1"> poor people, Abrams. I just believe that certain people are suited for certain positions in society, and trying to resist that makes everyone needlessly unhappy. Take Little J, for example: she wasn’t born rich, but she belonged in this world. Her brother, on the other hand, should have stayed downtown, watching Romanian films at the Metrograph and eating food that comes off of carts.”</span></p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1"><span class="s1">“But </span> <span class="s2">I’ve</span> <span class="s1"> never tried to belong to your world. I am perfectly happy being a regular girl from Brooklyn. Why do you still hate me?”</span></p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1"><span class="s1">Blair rolls her eyes impatiently. “Because you have no initiative, Vanessa. If you wanted, you could be powerful, and successful, and beloved, but you don’t even </span> <em> <span class="s2">try</span></em><span class="s1">.”</span></p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“If being powerful means being like you, I don’t want it.”</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1"><span class="s1">“Bold words from someone holding a glass of </span> <em> <span class="s2">my</span> </em> <span class="s1"> 90-euro </span> <em> <span class="s2">Château d’Esclans</span></em><span class="s1">.” </span></p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1"><span class="s1">“I’m not saying there’s anything wrong with being rich, but there </span> <em> <span class="s2">is</span> </em> <span class="s1"> something wrong with only caring about Louis Vuitton and Gossip Girl blasts.” </span></p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1"><span class="s1">“You can still be a vegan playing hackey-sack in Tompkins Square Park. But put in a little </span> <span class="s2">effort. </span> <span class="s1">For example, your clothes. The unfortunate fact is....you’re very beautiful,” Blair blurts out. “But you’re not doing yourself any favors dressing like you raided a flea market in Albuquerque</span><span class="s1">.”  </span></p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Was that… a compliment, Blair?”</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Don’t be ridiculous. I’m just stating an objective fact: you’re attractive. And more people would realize that if you didn’t dress like a Sim set to randomize.”</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1"><span class="s1">“You’re blushing," Vanessa is smiling sadistically, dropping her voice low and speaking slowly as she walks toward the other girl. "My God Blair, do you have a </span> <em> <span class="s2">crush</span> </em> <span class="s1"> on me?” </span></p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“No! I— I may go to NYU, but I’m not majoring in bicuriosity, thank you.” Blair stumbles backward a half-step. </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“So you’ve never even kissed a girl? Not even at camp, or a sleepover, just for fun?” Vanessa reaches around Blair to place her wine glass on the table. Her heart stutters in her chest. “You’re not the least bit curious? You’ve never wanted to taste Serena’s lipgloss? Or feel those long legs wrapped around you as her cheeks flush...? You don’t know what you’re missing out on, Waldorf.”</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Blair, despite herself, reaches out and touches Vanessa’s arm with her fingertips. Vanessa gently removes the other girl’s hand, then leans in and whispers:</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Uh-uh…no touching, B. You wouldn’t want to get my Brooklyn germs all over you, would you?” </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Blair’s hand (her traitorous, stupid hand) goes for Vanessa again, grabbing the loose fabric of her dress and pulling her closer. She looks up at those peacock-green eyes, totally helpless. </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1"><span class="s1">Vanessa grabs Blair’s wrist and holds it in place. “What would Gossip Girl say if she knew Blair Waldorf was wet for a girl right now? And one from the </span> <em> <span class="s2">outer boroughs</span></em><span class="s1">?” She giggles against Blair’s neck.</span></p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1"><span class="s1">Blair’s full lower lip is quivering slightly. Her knees are wobbling. She’s so turned on she can </span> <em> <span class="s2">taste</span> </em> <span class="s1"> it. </span></p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">She twists out of Vanessa’s grip and puts a hand behind her head, knotted in her unstyled raven hair. “Just shut up and fuck me, Abrams.” she says with a sigh. </span>
</p><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Their lips collide, and though Blair wants to be in charge, Vanessa isn’t about to make it easy for her. She backs the small brunette into a wall, and pins her hands above her head. </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1"><span class="s1">“Did you learn nothing at cotillion? Say </span> <span class="s2">please</span><span class="s1">, little B.” </span></p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1"><span class="s1">“Fine. </span> <em> <span class="s2">Please</span> </em> <span class="s1"> fuck me, Abrams, and do it now or else I’ll stop being so nice.” </span></p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Vanessa grins and reaches under Blair’s skirt to roll down her lacy stockings. </span>
</p><hr/><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Chuck’s pupils have dilated, his breath a touch faster just from picturing the scene.</span>
</p><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “So, I guess that means I win?” </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1"><span class="s1">“You </span> <span class="s2">definitely</span> <span class="s1"> win.” He purrs. “Furthermore, remind me to send Vanessa a tasteful floral arrangement.”</span></p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I wanted to do that too, incidentally. I guess Vanessa’s mouth isn’t just good for chanting ‘save the whales’ or whatever.”</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1"><span class="s1">“Mm, I recall. Maybe </span> <em> <span class="s2">she</span> </em> <span class="s1"> should be our game this weekend.”</span></p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Shut up.” She swats his arm. “We both know—“</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“The third has to be a stranger.” They say in perfect unison. </span>
</p>
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